time to wave goodbye
by belle-epave
Summary: taraspike for the tara ficathon.


"I don't care what happens," he said, and in the moment he thought it was true. He said he didn't care, and he hit her, and then he knew he was wrong. Her eyes went wide and frightened, then soft and laughing, tears of fear and relief in the corners, and he watched her through the white light and the pain. It burned clean, and he thought maybe, yeah, maybe he cared a little bit.   
  
Just a little bit, though, because she was sweet and soft, because she treated him like a man, like a person, not like a monster or hired muscle or a punching bag. Because she looked up at him under long lashes and half-smiled slow like honey when she said "Thank you." Because she would have been kind to William.   
  
So he said that he didn't care, he said it a lot, but he stuck around anyway. Watching. Protesting, perhaps, too much. Sometimes he'd stay up close, like that night in the Magic Shop, but far more often he'd stay at a distance, slipping through the shadows. She hadn't grown up in Sunnydale, so she didn't know what it was like out there. For so long she had been the creature who went bump in the night. Scared of the insides, not the outside. He told himself stories, made up reasons, and tracked her from the university library to the residence hall, scent like spices on the night air.   
  
::   
  
One night Tara tilted her head to one side and stopped. Maybe she had known he was there all along. She stopped and turned, and he stood frozen, half in dark, half pretending he didn't see her. Spike lit a cigarette, smoke providing a hazy layer of protection. "Hey," he said finally, practiced cool.   
  
"I'm strong, you know," she said. "I'd rather you not follow." Then, cutting off his protest, "But if you're going my way, I wouldn't say no to the company."   
  
He considered for a moment. "Right, then." He flicked the cigarette to the ground, shoved his hands deep in his jacket pockets, and silently walked her back to her residence hall.   
  
She smothered a smile as she said good night. "It's all right to talk, you know."   
  
He nodded, "Don't want to rush things."   
  
::   
  
He was there again the next night, and the next, and slowly words came. He told her about the women, but mostly about Dru, and she told him about the sunlight and magic and her old darkness.   
  
They both pretended that they had no interest in _Passions_, and he wondered what it would take to get her to sing.   
  
::   
  
When he slept, he dreamt himself a savior, protecting her from attack after attack. Vamps, wolves, gods of prehistory all descending upon them. She pulled her sweater around her like armor, and when the danger was gone, she traced the ridges of his forehead, cut her finger on a fang, and kissed him anyway.   
  
He told her half of this one night, but she said she wasn't helpless. She said she knew a spell or two. She said, "Don't test me" and smiled sweet. He burned.   
  
::   
  
"I'd like to go see her," she said one night, and Spike didn't have to ask who she meant. They sat in silence beside Joyce's grave, where the turned-up dirt had begun settling down and grass had started to grow again. He pulled up a blade of grass and shredded it between his fingernails.   
  
"She was so different from my mother," she said finally. "I mean," she thought for a moment. "They were both strong. But my mom kept it inside. Along with everything else. Some of it ate through her in the end."   
  
"I didn't know your mum was gone."   
  
"She got sick. I don't talk about it much."   
  
"You don't talk about much at all." She half-smiled. "My mum's gone, too. Well. Obviously. She was sick, too. But I killed her. Not quite the same thing."   
  
To his surprise, she didn't flinch. "Not quite, no."   
  
"But Joyce," he continued, "She was right decent to me, even though I wasn't one of the precious Scoobies. Always had a smile."   
  
Tara nodded, scooted closer, and rested her head on his shoulder, humming soft. "Thanks, you know. For this."   
  
There weren't any words then, and for once he didn't try.   
  
::   
  
When he walked her back that night, he felt a power in the space between them, a comfort in the silence. She reached out across the distance with her voice, "Goodnight Irene" almost a whisper.   
  
At the door he stopped her, his hand cool against the soft curve of her hip, warm through her skirt. _I'll see you in my dreams._


End file.
